


Number Our Days

by tobalance



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/Wives - Freeform, BDSM, Consensual Sex, D/s, Implied Off Screen Kink Negotiations, M/M, No Safeword Use During Sex - Freeform, Rough Sex, Safewords, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobalance/pseuds/tobalance
Summary: They had made plans before the game but after another crushing loss there is a desperate clawing feeling in Justin’s stomach that doesn’t bode well for either of them.





	Number Our Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blastellanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/gifts).



> Title from: “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom”- Psalms 90:12 
> 
> Regarding Safe Word Use [Contains Spoilers]:
> 
> Characters use a color and number system during sex.
> 
> Colors: Red - Stop. Yellow - Use Caution/Check In. Green - Good/Go.  
> Numbers: 1 - Hardly any pain. 10 -Nothing but pain. 
> 
> At one point a character uses “Red” outside of sex. At one point a character uses “Ten” outside of sex. No characters use Red or Ten during sex. There is NO non-consensual sex in this story. 
> 
> Thanks to: The numerous people who held my hand during this process especially our lovely mlb exchange moderator.

They had made plans before the game but after another crushing loss there is a desperate clawing feeling in Justin’s stomach that doesn’t bode well for either of them. He needs to minimize the damage that feeling is sure to inflict. So he states it as matter of fact as he can. “We probably shouldn’t tonight. I’m wound up pretty tight.” Like a coil. Like all it’s going to take is one comment or look to set him off. 

Alex has already showered and changed and is snapping his watch to his wrist. His shirt is wrapped tightly across his chest and arms, emphasizing all the work he’d put in during spring training and continued putting in during this first half. All that hard work that’s about to pay off with a probable trade. 

“If that’s what you want,” Alex says feigning nonchalance. He looks up then and his eyes are dark and intense as they look Justin over. “But you know there’s nothing you can give me that I can’t take.”

It’s not the right time to be challenging Justin. It’s never a good time but especially not tonight. Not when they came limping off the field to a clubhouse of irritated beat reporters tired of telling the same story of loss night after night. The story is getting old and no one’s listening anymore. No one’s interested in why they lost this game any more than they are interested in why they lost the last one or the one before that. 

What’s worse is they’re going to get their interesting story soon enough. The closer they get to the deadline and the more games they lose the more obvious it becomes that they’re heading towards a rebuild. There is enough drama involved in those to make any third-rate journalist look like a soap opera script writer. They’ll play up the strong connections between teammates torn apart by an uncaring business. And in return for such insensitivity the players will give business-like answers that would seem to prove how professional they are, how unshakeable. Justin doesn’t feel unshakeable. He feels explosive. 

“I’m probably going to grab one of the other guys and get some drinks anyway.”

Justin snorts. “That’s a lame attempt at invoking jealousy,” he says and Alex doesn’t bat an eye or even look up from pulling his shoes on. He merely shrugs noting, “I’ve been getting a lot more playing time lately. I’ve been working with a lot of other pitchers. It’s not a big deal.” He’s trying to act like this is about baseball, like anything is about baseball anymore. Like they aren’t just waiting the season out at this point.

“Worked for me in Chicago. Besides, Sanchez had an okay night,” Alex continues. “I think he’ll be adequate company. Don’t worry about it. You’re off the hook.” 

“You think you’re going to find someone who treats you better than me?” Justin asks coolly because _that_ was _not_ about baseball.

“Just trying to give you what you want,” Alex answers simply. “I told you I’m here for whatever you need. You need space, I’m happy to comply.”

“My room, eight o’clock.”

“You sure about that?” Alex asks. 

 Justin doesn’t answer, just brushes past him and out of the clubhouse. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Alex is punctual as always. They’ve been at this so long that Justin has the door open before he can even knock, motioning him in with one hand. The click of the door when it shuts has a finality to it which makes Justin slide the lock above in place with more force than is strictly necessary. Then he’s turning to look Alex over. 

Alex hasn’t moved from the hallway into the large suite. He’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring silently at Justin waiting to hear how this is going to go. 

The urge to hurt him is overwhelming. It’s a similar yet different headspace from when he takes the mound. The desire to be aggressive, to attack, is a physical sensation, like a shove. Alex stands there silently, allowing Justin his time to look, giving no indication he intends to fight back, to defend himself. That thought gives Justin a chance to calm the desire or at least shift it to its actual sources: protection, possession. 

A hand placed on either side of the wall brings him closer, keeps Alex in place and Justin presses his forehead to Alex’s, breathes heavily against him. “I meant what I said. I don’t think this is a good idea tonight.”

“Then why am I here?” 

It’s not really a question. It’s a gentle rebuke, calling Justin out because he knows what the pitcher is thinking, knows the strategy. Justin can’t dispute that, not without sending him away. He pulls back searching Alex’s eyes and says quietly, “Colors and numbers?”

Alex nods his consent even as Justin adds, “You don’t take more than you can handle.”

Another nod, not in agreement, because that should go without saying, but to acknowledge he’s listening to Justin’s needs, that his needs match Alex’s own. Justin nods back, kisses him short and sweet just to taste, to make contact. Then he pulls back and grabs Alex by the collar hauling him down the hallway and into the suite. 

Once inside Justin has Alex take off his shoes, shakes him a bit by the collar when he tries to reach over to do so. “No, kick them off.” 

Alex struggles to comply but manages the task, kicking the shoes away from them both before Justin marches him backwards. Alex’s legs collide with the bed and they both stop staring at each other. 

“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns. 

“I’ve never asked you to,” Alex answers with just enough bite to show he’s not going to go down quite as easily as he’d indicated at the door. He’s part of this too. 

“You’re going to hurt tomorrow. You’re going to hurt for the next several games. I’m going to make sure you think of me every day. Take your shirt off.”

“That’s kind of hard with you holding it like a security blanket,” Alex answers steadily, pushing against that coiled spring inside Justin. “Besides, I already think of you every day.”

Justin tries to process this information as Alex moves his fingers along the bottom of his shirt, attempting to follow orders and the movement forces Justin to let go for a moment. It’s still too long to be away and he shoves Alex back, sends them both falling into the mattress before the shirt can even hit the ground.

Once on the bed Justin reaches for Alex’s hands, pulling them towards himself and then moving up to his wrist and then wrapping both hands around either of Alex’s forearms. Alex looks confused for a moment and then he feels Justin’s nails dig in on both arms and his eyes snap shut as the nails dig painfully into his flesh. Then instinct takes over further and he tries to pull his arms away, an action that causes Justin to dig in deeper determined to hang on. 

There is no clock, no watch on his wrist now to tell him that thirty seconds pass before he can take no more, before he’s begging Justin to let up. 

“Kiss me,” Justin says and leans in. He doesn’t release Alex’s arms but his nails are no longer digging in. Alex leans up till they can crash into each other, opens his mouth, lets Justin’s tongue dip in to explore.  

When they come up for air Justin’s eyes are so dark they’re nearly black and he’s afire on top of him. He’s still explosive, still desperate despite the kiss, despite the markings. He needs something else so Alex tries to push himself up, push Justin back because he hopes Justin won’t like that. Won’t want him leaving. 

Justin presses his mouth to Alex’s collar bone. It’s sloppy and wet at first, like their kiss, but then Justin bites down _hard_ and Alex shouts, “Fuck! Oh, fuck,” as Justin releases his skin and tries to push him back down. 

“Lay back.” 

“Don’t bite me.”

They stare at each other breathing heavily into the empty room. 

Justin moves first but it’s not to acquiesce and Alex knows this even before Justin’s hand cups the back his neck. He feels the tips of Justin’s fingers rub there softly, almost soothingly before he reaches up and grabs a handful of Alex’s hair and yanks him forcefully down, till he’s flat on the bed.

“Lay. Back.”

There. He’s in control now, Alex can see it in the sharpness of his gaze even if he couldn’t hear it in the short, clipped words. He has what he needs and for the moment at least, he can keep him.

“Colors and numbers?” Justin asks again. It should worry him that Justin has asked twice now before they’ve even really gotten started but he just nods, pulls him down for a kiss to accent his consent. After which Justin tells him, “I’m still going to hurt you. You’re still going to take it.”

“Okay,” Alex breathes and wraps both his hands in the comforter and twists the fabric between his fingers. “Okay, I can take it.” He anchors himself with the sheets because now he’s certain. Justin doesn’t want him to move, wants Alex close. He won’t always be, but he is tonight. It’s going to be enough for now. Has to be. 

Mouth lowered to the spot of the bite, Justin licks around the irritated skin and then sucks and sucks and sucks. It’s wet at first and almost tickles but the longer he goes at it the sorer the area becomes. It’s instinct more than desire to pull away from the source of that ache but Alex is easily maneuvered back and still Justin sucks. 

Unrelenting. It’s unrelenting, that sucking. It’s also turning Alex on, making his dick go from taking notice at the proceedings to wanting in on the action. He tries to create friction between them and for a moment Justin’s hands rub over the front of his jeans, slide between his legs and explore but then the exploration stops and still Justin is sucking on the spot until the ache from the sucking is two, three, four times more demanding than the ache to his dick.

Alex thinks briefly of saying, “Yellow.” That brief flicker of thought comes back again, then again, the ache becoming a jagged thing like a serrated knife running lightly across his skin. He imagines blood pooling under that skin and still Justin sucks, never moving from the spot, never releasing for longer than it takes to catch his breath. 

The ache builds and builds until it’s just pain, until Alex bucks underneath him, panting out an “ouch” and then letting out an embarrassing whimper he wishes he could take back. Finally, he has to choke out, “Yellow.”

Justin releases his mouth from the spot at that and Alex breathes a sigh of relief until he sees the top of Justin’s brown hair ducking low again and he can’t help but whimper once more just at the thought of his lips returning to the spot to resume its inquires. 

Instead, there is only a light kiss to the spot and then another a little ways up his neck, where his catcher’s mask sometimes fails to protect him from foul tips. The next is placed just below his earlobe, then just to the side of his beard, then finally his lips. 

Reconnected. The languid nonverbal language first with the press of their mouths, then with the increasing friction as Justin grinds down into him over and over before he asks for Alex’s number. He wants to call Justin out on that, tell him he’s cheating because the pain is gone now, replaced with kisses and friction and excitement at what that pain, that mark, might mean. 

He goes with, “Four.”

That’s lowballing it but if he goes higher on the pain scale Justin might stop and that can’t happen, not ever. It’s the opposite of everything he’s ever wanted. 

“Good,” is Justin’s response and then he’s lowering his hands to either side of Alex’s waist, pushing him down further into the mattress. 

It’s clear why a second later when that hot mouth covers his neck once more and resumes sucking. Alex’s hips lunge up to try to buck him off because the pressure applied this time is less, far less, but it still hurts. Oh G-d does it hurt. Like a 98 mile an hour fastball square to his neck. The pain explodes even as Alex’s hips grind into Justin’s harder and harder, moving in time with the endless sucking until Alex is floating. 

It’s like their no-hitter far too long ago. The minute that last baseball hit his glove nothing hurt. Not his knees or his thighs or his back. There was no ache, no soreness, nothing. Nothing mattered. Nothing could touch him. Nothing could touch _them_. He feels nothing. He has control over nothing. Everything is in Justin’s hands. He is in Justin’s hands. So, he lays there and lets Justin keep sucking because he doesn’t feel it anymore. He’s weightless. If it weren’t for Justin’s body pressed into him he’d float up to the ceiling and around the room, lost and aimless. Instead, he’s safe and secure in his arms, going nowhere.  

He doesn’t feel his orgasm building, hadn’t even noticed that Justin had unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out until he’s suddenly firmly in his hand. Justin rubs the head of his dick, smearing the precum there, and Alex bucks a bit when the pads of his fingers touch the slit but Justin sucks harder on his neck, a clear warning to be still. 

Then he releases, spits in his palm twice and wraps his hand around Alex before squeezing. When he relaxes his hand it’s only enough to allow Alex passage through and Alex thrusts into his fist unthinkingly. Some part of him registers the return of lips to his neck and sensations there return. He doesn’t mind, can’t mind, because with every harsh suck against his neck Justin lets him thrust up into his hand and it’s a fair and seemingly endless point-counterpoint until he’s rushing, desperately, to release. 

He’s not sure how long he’s sprawled out behind home plate for before the ground behind him feels like a bed once more. His eyelids are too heavy to open but he can hear Justin over top of him gasping, knows that he’s stroking himself as he towers over Alex’s body. Some part of him hears the frantic request and he nods, or he hopes he does. His hands reach up blindly till he’s found Justin’s hips above him, can feel where the jeans have bunched. When he talks his voice is harsh like he hasn’t used it all day. He can’t do much more than whisper encouragement. 

“Come on, come on.”

A moment later Justin comes on his face with a groan, coating his eyelashes and then falling away somewhere to Alex’s right.

Next to him Justin’s head spins and he feels like he’s a rookie again beating off in hotel rooms. He lays there panting and tries to think if he and Alex had ever done anything remotely this hot the last time, before Alex’s number had changed. Before his uniform had changed. Before the White Sox. The thought makes his chest constrict and he feels the weight of that time crushing down on his ribs until Alex’s hand is suddenly there, searching blindly. 

He gets out of bed retrieving Alex’s shirt from the floor and uses it to wipe his face. When he’s finished Alex opens his eyes slowly, cautiously, and then smiles tiredly up at him. 

“That was intense.” 

All Justin can do is nod before he’s next to Alex again, exhaustion and gravity pulling him into the sheets. His eyes are closing when Alex sits up in the bed. 

“I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be right back.”

 Justin nods and passes out. 

 

\- - - - - - 

Under the hot spray of the shower Alex examines his arms expecting to see ten small little crescent imprints. His skin is red and angry, the spots where the nails dug in sore like a bruise but it doesn’t look bad. The welt on his neck is a different story, unmissable and throbbing like it’s got its own pulse. The ache of it brings tears to his eyes he’s glad no one can see. The pain it brings is more than equal to the relief he feels at its existence, this indisputable sign of possessiveness. 

It might be too soon to call it evidence. Evidence that this time if, or more likely when, he leaves the Tigers things will be different. That they won’t go from casual sex that feels like it’s more to phone calls, the occasional text and then deafening silence. 

The welt and the water wash away the uneasiness of that line of thought but the heat makes the welt almost unbearable and Alex shuts off the shower, wraps the towel around his waist and is surprised when he walks back into the suite to Justin holding out an icepack. 

“Here, put this on your neck.”

“I thought you’d still be asleep.” 

He takes the icepack gratefully but hisses when it makes contact with his skin. A second later the icepack is gone, yanked away from him.  
  
“Hey, no.” Justin moves away with it and toward his open suitcase sitting precariously on an overstuffed chair. He digs around in it for a moment before tossing Alex one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. Alex pulls the boxers on and then examines the shirt. 

“Red. I could have used this earlier.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say when across from him Justin’s face falls and he hastily adds, “I’m just joking. We weren’t anywhere near me needing to say red.”

Justin says nothing but pulls the collar of the red shirt up over the welt and applies the icepack, now separated by the thick fabric. It feels like cool water over a sunburn and it makes Alex shiver. 

“Hold this,” Justin tells him and Alex moves to hold the icepack himself as Justin heads to the bar searching through the options. Good a time as any. 

“You’ve, um, never been this possessive before.”

Justin removes the cap from a bottle of whiskey and pours a thumb’s worth in a clean glass. Alex doesn’t await his response, is surprisingly nervous, and instead waves at the glass of liquor with the icepack. “You going to share that?”

Justin snaps his fingers and points back at him saying simply, “Ice.” 

The mothering is unimpressive, especially given that he’s the reason Alex needs the icepack. Not necessarily unwanted but unimpressive. Then he’s got to poke at the issue again, unable not to touch it.  
  
“I must have really got to you with all that ‘other pitchers’ crap.”

 Justin turns away from him, setting the bottle of whiskey back, says simply. “Must have.”

The lie is smooth but readable all the same. It wasn’t the other pitchers that were a threat and they both know it. Alex may be good with all the pitchers but he’s only good for one. It was the reference to Chicago, of Alex being once more out of reach, that had set the night into motion. 

Justin stands in front of him and removes the icepack as he hands over the glass of whiskey. Alex looks over his shoulder to the bar but Justin nods at him to drink it. “It’s not for me it’s for you. Drink it. It will help with the pain.”

Following orders, Alex downs it in one shot and it burns going down his throat almost as much as the welt on his neck. He feels himself go flush and his head go fuzzy. He must be particularly tired tonight for the liquor to hit so hard so fast. It doesn’t help with the pain right away but he knows Justin’s right. It will. The warmth of it is already spreading outwards, away from his chest and through his entire body. Then the icepack is back on his neck. 

“You want to go back to your room or…”

“No. I can stay.”

Justin simply nods. “Good. I’m going to shower.” He walks past Alex and stops to toss the remote off the bedside table and into the middle of the comforter. “Find something good?” Then he’s gone, closing the bathroom door behind him. Alex doesn’t mean to fall asleep but he’s out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, the station unchanged.

When he wakes up the next morning Justin has already left and a completely different icepack is laying on the pillow next to him, its perspiration dripping down into the fabric. 

 

\- - - - - - 

They don’t stop grinding even as every question they get in the clubhouse can be boiled down to “Why?” 

Doing post-game interviews mirrors something like water torture, and the worse it gets the more of them they have to do because none of the veterans are putting the rookies through this. Not to this extent, with this level of animosity. 

Some things can’t be helped though. Players making errors in the field or players blowing saves are all expected to be there to explain themselves. Fresh off the field, still drenched in sweat and angry with themselves, they stand in front of the firing squad and try to remember what they’ve been trained to say in these situations. Rookie or veteran, their answers all become as repetitive as the questions. 

“We’ll put this behind us. Look towards tomorrow.” 

That’s the problem though. Tomorrow looks worse. Every day they get closer to the trade deadline. As the questions in the clubhouse change from questions about what went wrong in the game to what’s going to go down in the future it becomes impossible to stay in the moment, to feel anything other than complete hopelessness. There is the feeling of being completely at the mercy of the game, of having no control, that Justin can’t quite understand given his no trade clause. He has control. He has a say in his own destiny, just not enough of one. 

He knows it’s wrong that he’s continually calling on Alex to buffer that helplessness and he’s worried about that clawing need inside him to hold Alex down, hold him close. The wrongness of it makes him push Alex away but Alex keeps showing up night after night, keeps telling him he can take it, keeps nodding every time Justin gives in to the need to feel better by whispering, “Colors and numbers?”

The night he pushes Alex to a say yellow and six, the highest they’ve ever gone, he feels sick afterwards. Even then Alex had just curled up into Justin’s side, nearly breathless from pain and his own orgasm, and said, “You know the stuff we’re doing is actually pretty vanilla, right? For the most part. You’re not actually hurting me. I’ve never said red. I’ve never gone above a six.” 

It hadn’t been terribly reassuring. Just because Alex could take a lot of pain didn’t mean he should have to. When he’d suggested this Alex had looked murderous and asked, “Should I be taken out of every game I’ve ever been hurt in? Should we just go back to 2014 and end my career because clearly I don’t know what’s best for me? Do you think maybe I could have a say in what I choose to do with my career and with my life? I give you a lot of control, Justin, but you don’t get to decide what I can take and what I can’t. I call the colors and the numbers. Not you.”

The next night Alex shows up he’s so exhausted that when he walks in he says, “No colors or numbers tonight. In fact, no sex tonight. Just hold me.” 

When Justin does, wrapping his arms around his waist in bed, pressing his head to the back of Alex’s neck, he’s amazed to find that this works too. The desperation, the hopelessness and the lack of control disappear. He’s still here. They’re both here.

 

-  - - - - 

“He’s got the best OPS of any catcher in majors this year…” 

 “They’ve moved on from Justin Verlander but we’re told the interest in Alex Avila is still there…”

 “He handles the pitchers so well…”

 “He checks so many boxes…”

 “He’s comeback player of the year…”

 There isn’t a sports news outlet that’s safe but Justin can’t stop listening, waiting, worrying. 

\- - - - - - 

Everyone says goodbye to JD at different times. It’s the nature of baseball that there is always too much to do. JD only has 72 hours to report and in that time, a million people want to talk to him. He has interviews and conversations with family and friends and lots of packing. Every goodbye, therefore, is too brief and too underwhelming and JD looks more and more heartbroken every time Alex manages to get a glimpse of him.

Alex knows JD will recover faster than he thinks he will. It’s the shock that hurts the most. Everyone tells the kid the same thing, “Go get your ring.” He’s earned the chance to try. As hard as this is it’s a compliment, an acknowledgement that he’s too good to stay here. 

Alex want’s that kind of hope. If he removed Justin from the equation there is very little that he wants to stay for. The friendships he cares about he knows will last outside the season, outside the clubhouse. It was only his relationship with Justin that had been in question. It doesn’t seem to be much of a question anymore, not with how desperately Justin seemed to want to hold on to him, how aggressively possessive he’d been getting the closer they got to the deadline. It was the last bit of fear that Alex was clinging to and it’s been lifted.

So, Alex hugs JD goodbye, tells him not to be a stranger during the offseason and tells him to go get his ring. Then he heads back to work, daring to dream he might one day get his own. 

 - - - - - - -  

There were all the usual media interpretations and debates: the organization was looking to the future. The rebuild should have happened years ago anyway. A loss with prospects beats a loss without prospects, and so on. 

That’s all true. What kills Justin though is when Al Avila admits during an interview that JD was like a son to him. 

No interpretation or debate needed there.

What else isn’t up for debate: the Cubs were still showing interest in Alex, but not in him. 

If he received any offers that the Tigers could agree on, it would most likely come from the Astros or the Dodgers. It didn’t matter if he stayed a Tiger or not, either way they weren’t likely to take the field together again. The thought eats at him during the game, and afterwards.  

After the game, he opens the door for Alex but blocks his way in. 

“I mean it tonight. You can come in if you want but we’re not having sex.” He’s too dangerous. Alex’s smile turns to a frown and he tries to step past Justin and in but Justin once more blocks the way. He has to make sure his message is clear too. “I mean it. Not tonight.”

Alex’s frown deepens and he says slowly, as if he’s explaining something to a small child, “We don’t have to. We never have to. What’s going on with you?”

It’s unfair to expect Alex to read his mind but if he truly can’t understand the problem here, then that’s a problem in itself. One Justin can’t handle at the moment. Instead of answering he moves from the door and heads to the nearest chair. Then he pulls out his phone and resumes scrolling through headlines looking for some glimmer of hope.

Alex stands in front of him silent for a moment but when it’s clear Justin’s not talking he steps up closer, asks cautiously, “You know JD is going to be okay, right? I know he’s upset because it feels like a loss but he hasn’t lost anything. Not really. He’s got a chance now.”

There’s no chance here. That’s what he’s saying. Alex isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know so he’s not sure why it grates on him so much. He feels a disconnect between them like they’re on two different sides. Alex’s smile when he’d first arrived was in stark contrast to Justin’s mood. He doesn’t like it. 

“You’re handling this awfully well this time around,” he notes. 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

Yes. Justin wants to scream it. He wants to shove Alex against the wall and trap him there with him forever. He wants to tell him he loves him and he wants to hear him say it back. 

It occurs to him that he could. He could say it now. What would it cost? He’ll be gone in two weeks, maybe they both will, possibly to opposite sides of the country. Long distance doesn’t work for them, they’ve proven this. So, what could it hurt? But it’s like someone is squeezing his neck. Alex is staring at him with this concerned look on his face and all Justin can get out is, “There are so many things I want from you.” 

Commitment. Loyalty. A life together. Everything. He wants everything.

It sounds like goodbye. It sounds like a breakup. Justin looks wrecked and Alex feels his fingers go numb, feels himself go rigid even as he starts to shake. What is this? Why was he so upset with him? Alex shakes his head vehemently trying to shake off the terror and the tremors in one. 

“I told you before. There’s nothing you can tell me that I can’t handle. You just have to ask. Just ask.”

His voice is steady but there is something in the tone that sounds like fear and Justin thinks he knows why: he thinks Justin’s going to ask for something else sexually, something he’ll need higher colors and numbers for. 

Everything in Alex’s face reads as fear but he’s still saying yes. The thought is horrifying. What the hell had he been thinking, taking Alex at his word that he was okay with this, with all of this, while above them a clock counted down to destruction? Alex had said everything Justin had needed to hear to give himself a free pass. He’d been correct from the start to tell Alex it wasn’t a good idea. Alex had started by pushing his buttons but Justin had quickly capitalized on that, used it as justification, as an excuse to be malicious. He wasn’t going to do that again. Alex wasn’t ever going to stand in a room with him and be afraid again. Ever. 

“We’re not going to do this anymore,” he says with conviction and watches Alex’s eyes go wide for a second before they quickly return to normal. He wonders if he imagined it, thinks he probably did. Or maybe it was relief? 

Regardless, it’s not surprising when Alex goes suddenly tense at the news and asks evenly, “Why’s that?”

“Because we never should have from the beginning.”

The color drains from Alex’s face and his next intake of breath is audible. Justin gets it. Alex is a catcher. He handles people and problems and Justin is sending him away, telling him he can’t help anymore. He wants to tell him it’s okay, that he’s done a good job but it just reminds him that it never should have been a job to begin with. 

The shame Justin feels is grievous but nothing hurts as much as the look on Alex’s face and as the silence between them becomes cavernous Justin can’t help himself. No matter how horrible it is, what he’s done, it’s surely okay to say goodbye, right? To ease the blow? He wraps his arms around Alex one more time in a tight hug that isn’t returned. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers pressing his head against the spot where he’d previously marked Alex as his. “You’ll never need colors and numbers again.” Then he forces himself to let Alex go one last time. 

Only Alex doesn’t go when he steps back. He stays perfectly still, his eyes red and puffy, tears filling the corners as he looks Justin dead in the eye, furious. 

“Let me get this straight. You want me to believe you haven’t wanted this,” he motions between the two of them, “since the beginning?”

And oh, no. That’s not what he’d meant at all but Alex is continuing, his face now red in stark contrast to its earlier pallor. 

“And you waited till I told you that you could have anything you wanted, say anything that you wanted before telling me?”

Justin doesn’t feel the pain, just the force of the blow to his face knocking him back and causing him to lose balance. He hits the floor with a thump and can’t process that either. He can only look up at Alex towering above him, his fist still clenched. 

Alex takes a few labored breathes and his hand unclenches slowly.

“Red,” he huffs and is out the door before Justin can say a word.

 - - - - - - - 

They lose the next game and for the first time in remembered history Alex doesn’t care. He’s worried that if anyone asks him about the trade rumors or what it’s like to grind so hard for a team that doesn’t have a prayer, he might give an honest answer. He’s also worried Justin might try to talk to him, knowing he won’t want to fight in public, in front of teammates and cameras and reporters. That’s why he tells a half truth about having a headache to one of the trainers and subjects himself to a litany of questions in the training room, away from prying eyes.

“On a scale from one to ten, with ten the being the worst pain you can imagine, and…”

“One.” Alex cuts into Rand’s speech. He’s heard it enough times between ERs and bedrooms. 

“You doin’ alright?” McCann asks from the doorway. 

Alex wonders if he’s genuinely worried or if he’s just hopeful that Alex will be out a game and he can get more playing time. It’s all he can do not to say, “Don’t worry. You’re about to get all the playing time you want. Just give it ’til the trade deadline.”

“You alright, McCann?” Doug asks from across the room and James looks away from Alex to nod and answer. “Yeah. I’m fine, Doug. Just checkin’ on Alex.”

Alex rubs at his forehead where he still feels the weight of the mask pressed against him even though it’s been at least forty minutes since he took it off. What’s bothering him the most is his inability to gain perspective. He’s mentally lashing out at McCann and the kid hasn’t done more than show what’s probably genuine concern for his well-being. He needs to keep his personal life and his work life separate and until a trade makes that easy he’s just going to have to put in some effort. 

“I’m fine,” he assures McCann. “It’s just a headache.”

If anything, that answer makes McCann look even more concerned and he’s almost tripping over his own words in a rush to get out, “I have Motrin in my locker if you need some.” 

Between them, Kevin Rand’s eyes suddenly narrow and he puts both hands on his hips as he looks between McCann and Alex. 

“Shit,” Alex thinks. 

Now Rand is going to wonder why he came to him at all. If the headache really wasn’t that bad, was at a one, then why hadn’t he gotten something over the counter or from a teammate? If they think Alex is here for a serious medical problem and just unwilling to be honest with them about it, he’s in for a barrage of tests. 

“That would be great. Thanks McCann. Later guys.” Alex walks out with a wave, moving quickly down the hall and back to the clubhouse.

“Uh, hang on,” McCann calls after him but Alex doesn’t wait. 

He makes a beeline for McCann’s locker and sure enough, on the top shelf is a small bottle of 200 milligram tablets. He pours three out into his hand and swallows them dry one by one. When he’s done McCann is watching him, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left and then back like a kid that needs to use the facilities. 

“What is your problem?” Alex barks and McCann’s movements cease.

“JV wanted me to give you something.”

“Whatever it is, you can deliver it to that trashcan right over there,” Alex points to the bin directly under the basketball hoop in the middle of the room. McCann looks over at the trashcan like it’s important he locate which trashcan Alex is referring to. Then he squares his incredibly wide shoulders and holds out his hand forcefully. 

“Look, regardless of the fact that I’m hardly playing, I still have a job to do and it doesn’t involve passing notes back and forth between the two of you. So, if you want it in the trashcan toss it there yourself.” It would be an impressive speech if he didn’t end it with, “Please.” 

Alex is so thrown by the tacked-on pleasantry that he can’t help but laugh. “Alright, Mac. Alright. Thank you.” 

McCann nods, glad his mission has successfully been accomplished but asks one last time, “Ya sure you’re alright?” When Alex confirms he is, McCann grabs his bag and heads out. 

The note is actually the day’s lineup card folded in quarters. On the back, in Justin’s nearly illegible scroll is written: We’re not saying goodbye like last time. Please meet me. Ten.

\- - - - - - 

“On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you can imagine and one being hardly any, how would you rank your pain?” 

Alex had always hated that scale. It was idiotic. He remembered being asked that after a particularly bad foul tip, remembers saying to the triage nurse, “How could anyone answer ten? Wouldn’t you be in too much pain to talk?” 

The nurse had snorted looked up at him through the brim of his glasses. “I’ve had at least ten people say they were at a ten for a sore throat today. Last night someone told me they were at a ten for a blister.” 

He’d quickly learned that there were two reasons you said ten: You hadn’t had enough life experiences to be able to even imagine real pain or you were after something like sympathy or pain meds. So, which was this?

\- - - - - -  

Alex doesn’t talk to him for two days. He needs that time to numb the pain, clear his head and really think about things. When he’s ready, he comes to Justin’s place, walks into Justin’s kitchen without waiting for an invitation and stands by the kitchen island with his hands in his pockets. Then he asks the question that’s been bouncing around his brain demanding explanation for two days. 

“Why ten?”

“What?”

Alex pulls the folded lineup card out of his back pocket, sets it down on the kitchen island.

There isn’t anything Justin wouldn’t give for a glove and a baseball right now. Something solid to grasp on to, something that he knows for certain. He doesn’t have either though. He has to go with something else. It helps that now he has nothing left to lose. 

“Because I love you.”

Alex makes no visible response. He stares at Justin blankly, unmoving. 

“No,” Justin thinks. “No, maybe this is a ten. This is definitely a ten.” 

The silence is agony until Alex finally breaks it. 

“You love me, so you broke up with me. Now you’re at a ten and I’m supposed to care because…?” 

“Because, I didn’t _want_ to break up with you. I don’t.”

Alex takes his hands out of his pockets and places his forehead in his palms, tries to rub away this newly forming headache. “What the fuck, Justin?  You said we were a mistake, from the beginning. You said we never should have…”

“I meant colors and numbers. I didn’t mean us.”

Alex closes his eyes because he desperately wants to believe that, but two feet from him is the damning evidence. He opens his eyes and points to the lineup card. “You said you didn’t want this to end like last time. You didn’t say you didn’t want this to end. You said ten. I said red.”

“It doesn’t mean forever. Red never meant forever. Ten doesn’t mean forever. It means stop. It means too much pain. It doesn’t mean go away. It doesn’t mean stay away.”

“And last time?”

“Last time we ended because I didn’t say it. I didn’t say I love you. This time I’m saying it.”

Alex has to turn away at that because he can’t hold his composure, it’s starting to slip. “Yeah,” he scrapes out. “That’s twice now.”

Alex believes him. Or, at the very least, he wants to. It’s written all over him. Justin can see it in the way he’s wrapped his arms around himself like he does when he’s stretching before a game. They’re back to the beginning. Except one thing. 

“I meant what I said though.”

Alex jerks his head back toward Justin violently. His fingers dig in to his own arms.

“The ‘I love you’?”

“That too. But about the sex, I just…” Justin puts his hands on either side of Alex’s waist because even now he can feel the desperation building back up and with it the need to hold on. But he has to know.

“When you told me I could tell you anything, that you could take anything…”

“I can.”

“You can’t though. Everyone has a limit. Everyone has a breaking point.” 

“That’s what trainers are for. That’s what colors and numbers are for.”

“I asked you and you were scared.”

“What? When?” Alex pulls back even as Justin holds on tighter. “When have I ever been afraid during sex?”

“Not during. When I said I had something to tell you, something I couldn’t say…”

“You were breaking up with me. You’re not the only one who’s afraid to lose here. We’re both in this. Both of us.” He rests his head on Justin’s shoulder, puts his arms around him and pulls him in tight. 

“That’s what this was about? All of this? You thought I was afraid to have sex with you?”

Justin is slow to answer. “I’ve seen you take hard hits and stay in the game sometimes when you shouldn’t…”

Alex puts his hands on either side of Justin’s head, “Listen to me.”

Justin closes his eyes and holds on tight and Alex shakes Justin’s head in his hands, whispers forcefully, “Are you listening?”

Justin nods. 

“If I didn’t want to have sex with you I wouldn’t. If I didn’t want to have rough sex with you I wouldn’t. I have a voice. That’s what the entire colors and numbers deal was about. I get a say. We both get a say. You can’t make decisions for me. It would be like,” and the only thing he can compare it to is baseball. It’s always baseball. “If you couldn’t shake me off.”

“I can’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does. They’re back in this, the two of them. Together. 

\- - - - - - 

They had made plans before the game so it’s not surprising when Alex shows up at the doorway. 

“My dad called.”

On the mound, everything is silent. Sound can’t penetrate. It’s just him, the ball and the glove. 

“What did he say?”

“Don’t unpack. You're headed to Chicago. I love you.”

Justin is silent for a moment unsure if the, “I love you” was part of the message from Al or if it was meant for himself. He’s trying to work out if he should say something clever about how they all love him or something unfair like, “Then why did he trade you?” 

It’s the ninth inning now. Empty the tank. 

“I love you too.”

Alex’s smile is one of his very best and Justin knows he’s got it right this time. A final out. 

“Good. Then maybe one day it won’t only be a championship ring I’ll be wearing.”

No. Maybe not.


End file.
